


SWTOR: Tales From Tuuro

by SWTORAscension



Series: Ascension [4]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Bothan, Clawdite, Devaronian, Evocii, F/M, Falleen, M/M, Mirialans (Star Wars), Multi, Old Republic Era, Ongree, Original Character(s), Original Character-centric, Sith Empire, Tuuro, Zeltron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-08 14:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SWTORAscension/pseuds/SWTORAscension
Summary: Volume II - Interlude: (Late 3641 BBY)Straddling the borders of the three greatest powers in the Galaxy, the small moon of Tuuro is the calm eye of war-torn storm that rages around it. Rising out of obscurity with the Treaty of Coruscant, it continues to be a key location despite the return to open war that rendered the treaty void. Under the rule of the Fandas, it has flourished and grown. Its ancient fortress is many things to its varied patrons from all corners of the Galaxy. A retreat of brutal violence and unspeakable pleasure, of imagination and escapism. Where the liquor, companions, and showmanship are all of the highest quality. And a place filled with far more intrigue, danger, and darkness lurking just below the surface…





	1. Wisps of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> _[Author Note: This piece was written as a series of character sketches on side characters for SWTOR: Death Mark. It was a fun experiment to try writing from a handful of perspectives, helping to flesh out the main location for the story!]_

### 1︱Wisps of Memory

#### 3641 BBY

#### Pulsar Club

#### Tuuro

_How do I always find myself here?_

Smoke streamed from Mito Thalodus’s nostrils, forming a cloud around his face. It gave his dark, round glasses an ethereal look through it all from the glow of the dim lights and holoads. More than just decorative, the frames were custom built to adjust to ambient light and provide him better vision. It let him see clearly in every situation, at least on the surface. Motives and plans hidden underneath still eluded him much to his chagrin.

But maybe that was a product of age as well. Now in his mid-fifties, he was not quite as fast as he used to be. Even though he took the time to work out and stay fit. He regularly woke up with random soreness in muscles he did not know he had. A handlebar mustache running down to the jawline had turned gray, framing a boxy tuft of goatee – the only hair that had not left him years prior.

“You okay?” The deep voice asked from the stool next to him. It was hard to hear over the electronically tinged music with a heavy beat coming from the droid on stage. “Normally our debates are much more spirited.”

Mito turned to glance at his companion with a smirk. “Just considering, Creke.”

As an Ongree, Creke Gull was distracting to talk to just on appearance. Not that Mito would ever tell him that. Compared to humans, his face was upside-down, a mouth on top and eyes protruding on either side at the bottom. There were no true natives to this moon, but Creke was enough of a regular that he probably qualified as staff. Taking a pull on his own pipe’s tubular mouthpiece, the pillar of smoke looked like a fan-shaped crown.

“I’ve seen you consider lots of topics. Normally because you know I’m right.” Creke teased. “But you look wound tight. More stressed than usual. Maybe you need to take a trip upstairs to The Forge.”

Mito chuckled. The Forge was many things, all of them carnal and hedonistic… The Fandas made sure of it. A visit might make him forget all his troubles – in another life. “Nah. Back in the day when I was young and single, that would be the perfect cure. Now though? It’s not worth risking my family and all I’ve built for a few hours.”

Creke clicked his large teeth together in a sign of amusement. “A few hours? Not ten minutes?”

Mito just glared at him. “Watch it.” Taking another pull from his hose, he waved down the bartender before pointing to his glass for a refill.

“Alright, alright.” The Ongree conceded. He may have had a tendency to speak without thinking, but he was almost never malicious. “Just a bit of ribbing. How’s your business going then?”

“Another dorian quill, chilled, as requested.” The Mirialan bartender was a cool chartreuse with blonde hair less common among his species. A series of dark triangles were tattooed on his chin, giving the appearance of facial hair. Another geometric design ran across the bridge of his nose. Mito wondered silently how much that session must have hurt.

“Thanks, Vale.” Mito slid some credits across the bar. Not that this establishment had a problem with tabs, he just preferred to pay as he went. It gave him the freedom to leave debt-free whatever he chose.

Mito sighed. Maybe the only place he was truly debt-free with recent events. His clothes, his demeanor, his lifestyle was as much a smokescreen as the cloud drifting from his lips. Appearances were almost always deceiving, especially at a distance. And Mito tried to keep most people at arm’s length. It was the best way to conduct business. Friendly enough to keep his name on a client’s lips and interest in his product – aloof enough to product your trade secrets or letting them see any weakness. Vulnerability in markets like Hutt space could just get you killed.

Which meant he was like a wounded ginx in nexu territory. His best chance was just to blend in and hope no one was too hungry. He took a sip of his dorian quill, enjoying the smooth burn from the aged, caramel-colored liquid. “Sales have taken a bit of a dip as of late, but it’s nothing I can’t recover from.”

In reality, it was far more serious that a slow month. Mito specialized in navigation and tactical planning droids used on warships. Planning out battle scenarios and plotting complicated hyperspace routes in a fraction of a time it took their organic masters. They fetched a high price, doubly so when there was a war consuming the Galaxy. Any advantage could make the difference in battle.

War should have guaranteed he would never need to worry about financial security. That he could mint the credits with every shipment – but his family needed more. His daughter had been born with a rare genetic condition. It was no one’s fault, there was nowhere to lay the blame. The way her DNA formed was just the way the stars aligned. She was left with severe physical limitations and pain. It broke Mito’s heart to see her suffer, and he would have done anything to give her a better chance through science. Surgeries, implants, custom-made prosthetics, Mito sought out any potential treatment that might help her regain her mobility and quality of life.

They helped. Not always as well as he and his wife wanted, but it was progress. It was also expensive. Far more than his sales to Republic military would cover. So Mito turned to a wider customer base, and with that came a host of less reputable clients. Independent governments, the Hutt Cartel, Black Sun, pirate captains – their business brought him to Tuuro the first-time years ago. But the largest and most dangerous buyer with the Sith Empire. They needed his droids just as much as the Republic, if not more.

All of his sales were final, allowing him to recover until a few weeks earlier. A major shipment had been destroyed by a Republic patrol trying to cut off Imperial supply lines. It was a grave loss, as the Republic could discover evidence of his double-dealing, and the Empire would undoubtedly look to get their credits back for the delivery.

“Actually,” Mito hung up his pipe hose and started to slide off the stool. “I think I’m going to go turn in.”

Creke motioned to the stage. “What about the show? Jira Syn is always your favorite!”

“Maybe some other night. I just need some rest.”

Taking one last sip from the glass, Mito headed for the exit. A good night’s sleep would do him good. Regroup and decide if he needed to change his identity marker for a flight into Imperial space.

_Something for the morning._


	2. Durasteel Muse

### 2︱Durasteel Muse

#### Sen’den Armorworks

Propped up on a workbench scarred with scuffs, burns, and the stain of old paint sat a dull durasteel chestplate. Plain and unremarkable, it looked much like many of the armor pieces available down in the Arena. Some simple protection from an incoming vibroblade or blaster bolt. Leaning over the project, Hosonith Sen’den smiled quietly to himself. It was a start, and he would transform it soon enough. Taking the roto-hammer and placing the piece over heat, he got to work with sharp, quick strikes to the metal.

Unlike almost all the work he normally completed – commissions of custom armor pieces or decorative helmets from patrons, the never-ending task of forming and repairing the broken gear for the arena – this was a rare passion project that is purely his. A true piece of inspired art.

And what an inspiration he had as his muse. Ontali was a handsome and charming human, with soft eyes and hard, toned muscles. Younger than Sen’den normally pursued, and he was well aware of how the gray had begun to spread around his muzzle. But they had found a connection, something profound and passionate he had never experienced before. It gave him focus and motivation, excitement for a life that had become routine and occasionally tedious without something to look forward to.

In his hands, the chestplate warped and bent in subtle places. A rhythmic clank of metal on metal in the dim workshop. Rather than the level smoothness, it now better resembled a human torso. Pectorals, defined abdominals and obliques. A peak ideal that the Bothan had become wonderfully familiar with as he tried to match it to the images in his mind.

_Oh, the things that man could do..._

He had first met Ontali a few months back, not long after the man arrived on Tuuro. Looking to start over after working in the pleasure houses on Nar Shaddaa, he had followed the advertisement to this Galactic crossroad and its own unique den of fantasies. Not an uncommon story for many of those that worked in The Forge, but Ontali was far from common. They had first met during the midday, enjoying their own quiet drinks at Pulsar. A chance encounter that had led to deep debate and discussion while the world around them continued on throughout the afternoon.

It was only when the chronometer forced them apart to head back to work that Sen’den had discovered Ontali’s true profession. Rather than being put off by it, it only made Sen’den more intrigued. Calling out for the young man, he asked to see him again the next night. He had not expected him to agree, but found himself with a juvenile nervousness about this sudden relationship.

Tools in hand, he started in with the small engraving laser on the smooth surface. Light touches, scoring the lines cautiously. Better to start slowly and carefully, developing the design, rather than creating permanent damage from being too aggressive. The same could be said about their relationship. Taking their time as they learned more about one another and where things might go. Small lines became sweeping swirls with depth and detail, glistening across the metal like veins of a living thing.

Rather than drinks, the next night had been a full dinner. And the next night. And a couple days after that. Long talks and good food and sneaking away for more physical interactions. Ontali laying on his furry chest as the man slept quietly. It had been a whirlwind of passion and obsession that he would not change for anything.

They had kept their relationship a secret, especially from the Mistress and the Majordomo. It was mostly out of an unspoken guideline of avoiding fraternization between the staff. Past incidents between jealous lovers had caused issues for guests staying at the Fortress, especially when it involved Forge hosts. Not that it was anyone’s business but their own.

Flowering vines now crept across the whole of the stylized chestplate, edged with a specially mixed gold paint. The contrast stood out brightly against the dark gray metal. Setting the laser aside, he pulled out a set of paints formulated for bonding to armor. He focused the beam onto a test panel before moving along each minute detail. Starting with fern green along the life-giving vines, he worked his way across the metal canvass. Then onto the flowers. Each of the blossoms appeared burst open with its petals wide. Fire lilies of brilliant orange and cerulean Ithorian roses, Ontali’s favorites from his childhood on Wor Tandell. One of the many things he had learned about his paramour during their talks. The designs looked beautiful in the light, but were still far from their true glory. A fine coating of clear gloss on the finished product would make the whole project shine with the newness of quality and wealth.

Mostly satisfied, Sen’den moved to find a box he had been saving for this project. Opening the lid, three sculpted objects lay inside. Gilded with the finest electrum, this was the most expensive bit of the project. It had taken weeks of work to save enough scraps bits from his commissions to melt down and form these accoutrements. Now the scaled-down roaring head of a jaggalor and its deadly paws sat facing him. A deadly and beautiful beast from the wilds on Corellia, they could bring down much larger prey with skill. Taking the head in one hand, he used a small welding torch to attach it to the top center of the chestplate. Sparks leapt as he carefully bonded the metal piece into place. Moving to the shoulders, he added one of the two-clawed paws to each side.

Using the jaggalor had been a personal preference. Ontali frequently dressed like a pit-fighting gladiator for his trademark look. It fed into a frequent fantasy of engaging with a dangerous and attractive warrior. Too many holonovels, Sen’den assumed, but he always looked so proud in that armor. He deserved something that fit his strength, lithe body, and if he could be a bit poetic, captured his heart. For anyone else, it would only add to Ontali’s fearsome look and sense of danger during a scene.

They planned to see each other again tomorrow. Some time in the late afternoon at Sen’den’s quarters, once he got off work. It seemed the perfect time to discuss their future and present Ontali with the handmade gift. That was, if he kept up the effort and powered through to finish this chestplate tonight. Knowing Ontali, he would be embarrassed and worried about the fact that he did not have anything to reciprocate with, but that was not what mattered to Sen’den. He just enjoyed the chance to make something special and personalized for someone he cared about.

Motion from the hallway outside made him stop what he was doing and look up. A dark shadow silhouetted against the midnight blue of the hall itself as the figure moved away and disappeared toward the guest rooms. Watching the stillness for only another moment, Sen’den pulled the magnifying scope back into place and adjusted the aperture. There were enough guests and staff that moved around late at night, mostly making poor decisions with their lives. Unless the Fandas started paying him to be security, there was not point in paying it any mind.

Besides, he had a project to finish.


	3. Curtain Call

### 3︱Curtain Call

#### Pulsar Club (Backstage)

Echoes of applause spilled through the stage door as the figure in vibrant garb entered, fading slowly away and being replaced by the low buzz of conversation. Another exhilarating and exhausting show in the books. Backstage just seemed so dull and cluttered after the bright lights and sweeping music of a few minutes before. A deactivated repulsorsled sitting heavily on the floor and stacked with instruments for the bandstand. Lopsided racks with haphazardly hung costumes from countless quick changes. That one janitorial droid, endlessly sweeping the area day and night, carrying out its monotonous function for eternity.

Staring into the mirror, Jinra Syn closely examined the reptilian face staring back at them. For all the dozens of faces they wore on stage, this was their true self. Every line and ridge of their grey-green skin, that bald scalp, thin lips, even their upturned nose - hidden from most everyone but in these private moments.

Clawdites like themself could be nearly anyone – changing their mass, shape, and texture to become whomever they chose. It was liberating in some respects, having that freedom. The crowds loved them for their ability to look like famous holoperformers while dramatically lip syncing to their songs. It was the whole appeal of the show. Jinra worked to perfect the looks by making it even more exaggerated and colorful than the original artist. Such tweaks and building up the performances was an art in itself.

‘_Changeling_’ was normally what people referred to them as. A shorthand for their species’ ability, rather than by their given name. It used to be insulting, but that burn dulled with time. Jinra told themself it was innocent ignorance over xenophobia. Even gushing fans seemed to use it as a way of getting their attention, only to lavish praise.

Jinra loved the stage and performing, including planning how to pull off the incredible looks and adapting it each night for the crowds. People liked new and varied shows and different songs to keep things fresh and entertaining. Jinra could change their face on the fly but would always be more limited by costumes. Larger outfits were essential at the start of a show – they drew greater attention and allowed for costume changes to be layered underneath. Female singers were usually the opener, shifting to male appearances in the middle, and then female at the end. This usually meant the final outfit would be a bit more revealing to match the performance. It was a tried and true formula so far, and Jinra rarely received a bad review – except for those who were anti-alien or belligerent drunks.

A hollow knock came just before one of the bouncers peeked his head in. “Hey Jinra, don’t mean to interrupt. You’ve got an invite for drinks. Pretty sure he’s one of those Sith guys.”

Jinra sighed. Of course I do. There were frequent invitations, mainly patrons wanting to have drinks with one of the many faces, rather than the one that wore it. “Appreciate for the heads-up. Did they have a specific request?”

The human smirked. “Actually just said ‘come as you are’ and when I asked what that meant, he said ‘the real Jinra Syn.’”

“Thank you.” As he disappeared again, Jinra sat silently. Someone who wanted to have drinks with just them. _Consider me intrigued_. Standing, they headed for the back entrance to Pulsar’s floor.

The man sat casually at the small round table. None of the stiff formality that Imperial military officers had when they visited on shore leave. There was still the Imperial aesthetic though - a dark, double-breasted coat, tailored to his lean frame. A thin, crimson line edged the angled front panel. It nicely bordered the Sith Empire’s cog-like emblem embroidered near the corner. Jinra looked for his lightsaber before realizing it was likely checked by security when the dark lord entered the building.

“Hello there.” He said simply as he swirled the azure liquid in his vase-shaped glass. As they sat, he waved the server over. “Can I get you something?”

Jinra eyed him suspiciously. “A vormfruit juice would be wonderful.”

“As you wish.”

Seated across from him, Jinra could see it now. Eyes unnaturally yellow-orange framed by wavy, shoulder-length black hair. He lacked a hardness of the other Sith that had visited from time-to-time. Always so full of rage at every little inconvenience and making threats against the staff.

“So,” they began, “this was unexpected. What should I call you?”

“Darth Arnus.” He replied, a hint of a smile forming. “And I enjoyed your show. Well planned and executed. Your timing was impeccable to keep the audience on their toes.” His accent was not the clipped one they expected, more of an unpolished brogue.

Jinra nodded. “Thank you… Darth. I was actually talking about wanting to see this version of me.”

Arnus corrected that point. “The real you. Honestly, I’m usually surrounded by people hiding their faces and true intentions behind both real and metaphorical masks. It’s a welcome change to chat with someone just being themselves.”

They appreciated that. Too many people around here could end up living completely false lives just for power or fame. _I might be lots of people during my shows, but at the end of the day I'm still me_.

The pair sat in silence for a few minutes, savoring their drinks as they people watched. Only a few tables remained occupied with chatting couples enjoying a date and a three-person sabacc game going in the corner. Technically frowned upon, but Jinra doubted security would intervene. This place was settling into its late night lull. Drinks were available at all hours, but most everyone had headed to their quarters or on to more adventurous pursuits.

"So, that accent doesn't sound like Ziost. Where are you from?"

Arnus chuckled. "Ya noticed that, did ya? I'm from the outskirts of the Empire. A colony world, not that it really matters. As soon as they figured out I was Force sensitive, they shipped me off to Korriban. I was too busy trying not to get killed by beasts and my fellow acolytes to work on making it sound posh."

"Uh… wow. Well, glad you didn't get killed. Sounds like your training was kinda awful."

"It shaped me into who I needed to be. Made me stronger than I ever would've been back home." He took another sip of his drink. "What about you? How did you end up performing covers on some small moon?"

"Not many opportunities for a Clawdite in the Galaxy. We're outsiders, and most other species want my people for infiltration and assassination work. A lot of crime syndicates. I just always loved music and the pageantry of performing." Jinra shrugged. "I mean, it's not like I don't brush elbows with some of the seedier elements here, but I get to see so many different people. My audience comes from everywhere in the Galaxy, and it feels like I can give them something special to take with them on their journey." They realized they were getting lost in their own spoken thoughts. "Sorry, didn't mean to say all that."

He motioned that it was no problem. "Don't apologise. That was an insightful answer. I like that you bring passion to your work. Passion is essential in any pursuit."

"I guess you're right." Jinra gave a polite wave to one of the bartenders, as he headed home for the night. “See you tomorrow, Vale.”

Arnus focused on them. “You seem to know most everyone around here.”

“I wouldn’t say everyone, but I try to be observant.” They looked at Arnus inquisitively.

“I was looking for a friend of mine. Human with dark glasses. Haven’t seen him in years, but I heard he sometimes stops through here.”

Jinra chuckled. “Mito. Sweet guy. Always has the same drink. He normally sticks around for my show, but perhaps he went to bed early? He normally stays over near the staff quarters.”

“Maybe I’ll pay him a visit, if you don’t mind.” Arnus drained his drink and stood. “It was lovely meeting you, Jinra. If you ever make it to Dromund Kaas, I know a few lounges that would love to showcase your talent.”

“Nice meeting you too.” They responded, watching him make his way out. _What a strange encounter_, they thought quietly. Maybe it was a Sith thing. The whole experience with Arnus was so different from any of the stories told by the staff of their own encounters with the Empire’s elite class. Regardless, they sat back and resolved to savor the last of their drink before leaving.

A half hour later and back in their typical far less colorful clothing, Jinra headed out the stage door and locked it behind them. Not like there were normally thieves looking to steal costumes and instruments, but more often a drunk bar patron that thought it was the refresher. Most everyone still up and moving around were enjoying a nightcap at the bar or had already gravitated up to the Forge. Either way, it gave Jinra some much appreciated peace.

Passing a window, a flash outside caught their eye. Jinra saw the angry red burn of engines attached to a dagger-winged scout fighter. Its silhouette looked fearsome as it streaked from the dark sky across the blue-green swirl of the gas giant hanging over the landscape. Names of military craft were not quite their strong suite, but the moniker ‘_Bloodmark_’ floated above the others. Unique and dramatic enough to be memorable. Probably that Sith from earlier, leaving in a hurry considering it was so late. Jinra shrugged it off as they moved on, heading back toward their quarters.

Sudden sharp voices from ahead were hurried and upset. Jinra crept closer to get a look.

A handful of guards had gathered around a body in the hallway. Slumped against the wall in a seated position, he looked to be a human with dark glasses. Even though Jinra could not see his eyes, his face twisted in a look of surprise and horror. Dark, drying blood flecked his lips and ran in rivulets from the sides of his mouth. Other than that, his fine garments were pristine and untouched.

One of the guard captains hurried up and looked between the group. “What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know! Probably took too much spice or something!”

“Keep it down.” The man ordered. He switched between examining the body and keeping an eye out for any threats. “There’s no way this was an overdose. Honestly, I just hope it was something natural.”

"We need to tell the Majordomo."

"Kriff that." A third guard replied. "I'm not risking her wrath, and definitely not the bosses. I need this gig."

As they bickered, Jinra turned back to stare out the window at the empty sky. That fighter might have been long gone, but it appeared the Sith’s presence lingered. _No, that can't be true. It has to be some sort of morbid coincidence. Did I have a role in this_?


	4. Pleasure and Pain

### 4︱Pleasure and Pain

#### The Forge

Letting out a deep, meditative breath, Kenzek Xent opened her eyes and stood. This was her nightly ritual, a bit of silent reflection before she got to work. Adjusting the high, pointed shoulders of her leather bodice, she stepped closer to the case of tools and toys of her craft. The instruments of her art. Selecting a few choice pieces, she placed them in the bag dangling from her hand.

Her profession was frequently referred to as ‘the oldest job in the Galaxy,’ but she had never seen it as so crude or unrefined. It took practice and focus to apply the correct and often subtle mix of pleasure and pain to her clients. Anticipating their needs and wants before they realized it themselves. Helping them to discover a new side of their personality and bringing them more fulfillment then they had ever experienced before. Xent had been put in charge of The Forge for a reason – she was simply the best.

As a Falleen, she was ideal for the role. Although considered reptomammalian, Xent appeared more like an exotically beautiful, green-skinned humanoid. Lean and tall, the sleek symmetry of her features meant many considered her to be among the most aesthetically pleasing beings they had ever seen. Above the subtle spinal ridge on her back, Xent’s hair jutted up in a thick, flowing waterfall from the top of her mostly bald scalp. The Falleen evolved to produce natural pheromones, nearly irresistible to most species and genders. Likely a way for her ancestors to entice and ensnare their prey in ancient times. Even a light dose inhaled would make her seem exponentially more attractive, trustworthy, and infatuating. Add to that an ability to shift the tone of the smooth, tiny scales covering her skin to red or bluish, and she had the ability to adapt to any situation.

Watching clients bend so easily to her will amused Xent to no end. Her people put a high priority on self-control, and by extension, control over others and situations. An ideal position for a Mistress like herself. At least her clients knew their place. Based on what she had seen in her time away from her homeworld, perhaps her leaders had been right that Falleen were the superior race. A small and fleeting opportunity for justice to be served.

She had enjoyed her time away from home, learning incredible amounts about the different powerful factions and lesser-known kingmakers that truly controlled things behind-the-scenes. A sort of silent information repository for the Galaxy’s secrets. She still missed her old life on occasion, but it faded with time. There were tropical forests on Falleen that were similar enough to Tuuro's islands, but Xent had grown up amongst the mountains. An icy, harsher climate with her cold-blooded biology, but it invigorated her spirit. It shaped her into the being she was today.

Pressing the activation switch on the door with her clawed finger, a wave of music flooded in as she entered the main room. Dark and sensual beats pulsing and enveloping those curled up together on couches and in booths around the floor. A red-tinted round space filled with all sorts of debauchery, shutting out the Galaxy as they lost themselves in each other.

Both male and female dancers gyrated their scantily-clad or naked bodies in time with the music. Human, Rattataki, Zeltron, Twi’lek, and Theelin. Xent had personally insisted to the Fandas that they keep those hired as dancers a diverse group. Cater to a wider variety of tastes. All of them were trained in myriad of the most seductive dance styles to match different rhythms and genres.

Striding past the writhing forms, her black, revealing outfit exuded power and confidence over the patrons of this place. High boots with sharp heels and an open-front skirt that swung behind her with every step. This was her domain, her own little slice of the kingdom. Living in the shadowed rooms and flashing lights of Tuuro’s greatest attractions. A humid temple to what a dozen species would call ‘_love_.’ Xent smirked. Such a strange concept in any language, but whatever brought more clients through her doors. And if that made her some sort of high priestess or goddess, so be it.

A staircase on the far side led to the upper level, a ringed balcony that overlooked the events below. It was also where the DJ controlled the music to match the general mood of the room as the night went on. Xent noted the armed guards stationed at the foot of the stairs - humans blended in here better than Wookiees or Houks, especially with their sidearms concealed - but paid it no real mind as she passed them. They were there for her protection, and their reasons behind it were irrelevant.

Most people had no idea about what really went on in a place like this. Among normal society there would be disparaging jokes about what brought pleasure if it seemed unorthodox, or those that saw this place only as some simple brothel. Xent shook her head slightly in disapproval. It was never about some simple, quick act for a few credits. The real passion and fulfillment came from the tension leading up to it. That flutter of anxiety and excitement flooding a client’s brain with the anticipation of what was to come. Not that there was not some… unique requests, but the end goal was always about finding that release.

Stroking lekku, the false threat of a blade, even a touch of fire, the predilections of the individual were as varied as the genders, backgrounds, and species of the individual themselves. A crackling electrobaton, set at the right voltage, was especially popular for stimulation. It hinted at danger without actually putting the person in danger of actual damage. Others just found excitement in the chance to be with someone of a different species, a taboo on many planets. Of course, that could go the other way as well...

It was almost paradoxical how xenophobic some clients could be about the superiority of their species – more common among Imperials but evident in those from the Republic as well – yet still request her services exclusively. It was almost like all the politics and ideology disappeared when it came to the most primal of urges.

There was even an Alderaanian noble whose greatest desire was to be frozen in carbonite, finding the sensory deprivation gave him that special rush. It had taken the Fandas months to import and install a freezing chambers in a specially themed industrial room. Xent refused to carry out those sessions for liability reasons, keeping a freezing technician on retainer for when he visited.

Even a dominant needed to have limits.

She was less hesitant about the people that sat waiting whenever she entered a room. Xent was well aware of who she dealt with each night, and the sort of business they conducted. Gangsters, senators, Moffs, and businesspeople came and went, all looking for much the same thing. There was a war everywhere but here on this tiny moon. Violence and geopolitics and backroom deals that shaped and reshaped the Galaxy. Xent gave them a chance to ignore all that, to escape for just a little while from the problems that hung sinisterly outside. She put everything aside while in a scenario, making everyone involved in the scene begin as a blank slate. And afterwards? Well, that was not her problem.

Up ahead, she spotted Ontali slip inside one of the rooms before the door slid shut behind him. Based on how he was dressed, it was in service of some sort of pit fighter fantasy, all oiled muscles and heat of battle. Not her cup of caf, but he had made it his own.

Xent chuckled. She knew about Ontali and Sen’s little tryst. She was a busy woman, not blind. The Bothan was hanging around The Forge constantly, normally right around when her little human was headed out, and there was no hiding that look in his eyes. As much as rumor may have said otherwise, Xent did have a heart. Ontali never let the relationship change his attitude or passion for his work. If anything, it had made him more approachable and a better host.

Living in two very different worlds was one of the troubles of this job. Becoming a dozen different fantasies at night and going back to your typical self during the day. Sleeping, eating, seeing holofilms, the mundane things one did when they were not being objectified. Her hosts needed an escape as well, something they chose. If not, they were no better than droids, and droids could never compare to an adaptable organic’s flesh.

_Enough of that_, she thought, _there’s work to be done_.

Stepping up to the door at the end of the hall, Xent focused until her skin turned a brilliant crimson. A coy smile formed on her face as she activated the door control and stepped into the room.

“Shall we get started?”


	5. Laid to Rest

### 5︱Laid To Rest

#### Arena of Champions

Durnt the Brawny always seemed like a misnomer. The Evocii was large for his species, but his musculature on his gangly frame was more lean than bulky. It was a product of his work in the arena – retrieving the dead combatants and discarded gear between matches. An unseen part of the process, his work was essential to the arena’s function and preparing for the next bout.

Little noise came from his leather shoes as he padded out across the patterned durasteel floor. Its surface was worn from countless blade strikes, blaster bolts, and mostly the scuff of running boots. Pausing near the center, Durnt looked straight up. The slight shimmer of the energy field was gone, deactivated without a crowd to protect from the battle. Durnt could only see the high ceiling and rows of seats clearly during these times when the arena was empty. After all the bloodthirsty cries of the crowd, roars of fighting beasts, and screams of pain, the silence made for a disturbing contrast.

These moments of quiet and taking in the subdued atmosphere is what he enjoyed about this usually draining job. Not that he would ever complain. He was thankful to be here and have an honest career. If not for the Fandas, he and his team would still be quite literally slaving away under the Hutt warlord Suddaa Nem’ro. The Zeltron couple had bought their freedom a couple years ago to bring them here. Durnt was happy to be far away from his cruel former master and the toxic wasteland he grew up on – Nal Hutta. A place with lakes of poisonous chemicals and choking clouds streaming from its industrial factories.

Legends among the Evocii was that they, not the Hutts, once ruled the planet. That it was once known as Evocar. Back then, his ancestors had been tricked by the Hutts into trading away their land for technology, only to be enslaved once the newcomers owned it all. But those were fables told by the rebel tribes that lived out in the swamps – and Nem’ro had made it clear through beatings that such lies would not be tolerated.

He would never understand just how bleak his people’s history was in reality. How the Hutts slaughtered thousands of proud Evocii warriors before enslaving the rest. How once the buildings were constructed, they shipped most of their slaves up to the moon of Nar Shaddaa to expand its tall towers and expansive spaceports. How they stripped the Evocii of their language, culture, and history to make them more obedient slaves. Generations of exposure to to chemical runoff, harsh atmosphere, and inbreeding had destroyed his people. Mutations devolved them into pallid, slow-witted humanoids with pointed ears, exaggerated features, and wide, distinctive noses. It was why even now he saw the Fandas more as masters than employers. Slavery is all his family could ever remember performing.

“Hey Durnt!” One of the others called out as they pushed a repulsorsled. “Are you coming?”

He nodded back quietly. “Be there in a minute.”

Tonight’s contest was a team deathmatch – a classic and favorite of the crowds. Only melee weapons were allowed for a more intense and entertaining fight. Far more participants involved and casualties scattering the room when it ended. All the death used to bother him once upon a time. Now he had learned to compartmentalize it so he could keep his appetite. Still, he would wait to eat until after the job was done.

Six corpses lay twisted on the ground, few of them neatly intact. Depending on the skills of the medical droids, a severely wounded seventh might join them. Vibroswords were know for the micro-vibrations that enhanced their destructive power of the blade - rending flesh and bone far easier than a typical sharpened edge. Based on the clean cuts and deep, gaping wounds, the weapons were well-maintained.

A low buzzing came from one of the bodies closest to Durnt. It was an electrostaff, the ends still crackling in its former owner’s death grip. Prying the weapon free, he pressed the deactivation switch on the blade-scarred shaft. Half of the vibrosword jutted out of the man’s chest, leaving a jagged hole in his arena-provided armor. When renting armor, you got what you paid for. The hilt and bottom half lay near a severed arm about ten meters away. Carefully working out the embedded piece, Durnt gathered the weapons and headed for the service tunnel.

The backstage area was a mix of bare metal and rough stone, lacking the polish that the audience normally saw during a match. He lived down here in one of the bunkrooms. They were simple but far more comfortable than anything he had slept on before. Alongside the bunks, there was a common area with a small space under where the stands stood.

Most everything else was taken up by gladiator ready rooms, animal pens, and scenery storage for the themed matches. Right now that included a forest hunt, ruined city, icy blizzard, and desert wilderness. There were some patrons that was pushing for an underwater match, but that required more aquatic species to volunteer, like Nautolans, Mon Calamari, Quarren, and Selkath.

Dropping the broken weapons in a large bin, Durnt noted a couple smaller armor parts inside. Once his team stripped the dead of their armor, those pieces would be added to the pile. Dented, damaged, broken – it was all collected and sent upstairs to the Bothan armorer and his workshop. Sometimes it took a couple weeks, but eventually they reappeared with barely a discolored scar from the repairs. Not that the next fighter to use it really noticed.

Returning to the main pit area, the noxious smell of death and alien musk hung heavy in the air, growing by the minute. The Evocii barely noticed. His nose-blindness came from the routine of it all and dulled the instinctual sharp repulsion that nature had provided him.

Careful to avoid staining more than his protective apron, Durnt began transporting the bodies over to the waiting repulsorsled. For the smaller ones, it was not too taxing to lift their weight. The largest of the dead was another problem entirely though. It took two of them to drag the hulking mass covered in heavy armor all the way onto the stack.

Once all the remains had been secured, he took he now sagging sled’s handle and began dragging it out of the arena. A couple of the other Evocii passed him with large hoses, one heading to the center and the other to the walls. Connected to a nearby water source, their job was to power-wash the carnage and viscera away. Give the illusion that the area was shiny and fresh each and every time.

Durnt moved at a leisurely pace, the sound of spraying water and the low thrum of the repulsors in the background. At their current speed, it would only take another thirty minutes or so to clean everything up completely. There was a separate sealed alcove backstage for the dead. It was kept refrigerated behind a large door to delay decay and cut down on odors. Durnt always wished he kept a more comfortable coat by the hatch. At the same time though, it was not worth risking potential stains and smells on something of quality.

Where the dead ended up was based on their economic status and predetermined wishes. Some fighters laid down the credits for an after-death plan. This usually included a sealed casket pod and instructions on shipment back to their homeworld for funeral rites. The weekly supply shuttle would start them on their journey before passing it off to sub-contractors.

For those without the necessary capital or family, the bodies had nowhere to go. Durnt’s team would strip off their personal armor, if they had any, along with salvageable clothes, jewelry, or cultural trinkets for resale. Then the body would be broken down by repurposed slaughterhouse processing droids into their component parts. These would be distributed to the carnivorous animal food troughs. Keeping down waste while solving multiple problems. It was a macabre treat that also kept the creatures willing to attack the contenders during matches.

Laying each of them on their designated slab or pod, he mused silently about his own demise. When he eventually died on a random arena accident or of old age, what would happen to him? Would he be fed to the beasts like these anonymous fighters? Sent back to Hutta to be dropped in a swamp? Did it really matter in the end?

“Durnt.”

It was a statement, not a question. The Evocii turned to see the Majordomo standing in the shadow of the doorway. Considering her high-ranking position, she almost never came down here or interacted with his team. That made her sudden presence either very good or very bad news. Based on her tight expression, it was probably the latter.

Durnt cast his eyes to the floor. “How can we serve?”

“You will have another body to dispose of. Do it quietly and tell no one of this conversation.”

“As you command.” He looked past her to the two security men carrying a limp form.

What was one more amongst the dead?


	6. Accountability

### 6︱Accountability

#### Executive Suite

As the Majordomo of the Fortress, Lintal ‘Tal’ Suronious was second only to the Fandas in the power she wielded. A power she took extremely seriously, especially when she had been summoned to meet with her bosses in person. Her autonomy was a cornerstone of her role in this place, and direct meetings only occurred when absolutely necessary – like tonight. Stalking through the dim hallways, she ran over all the details of the evening in preparation for the questions she knew she would be asked.

Dressed in a militaristic style, Tal had light armor panels strategically sewn into her clothing. It provided protection against most blades and blaster pistols, save for a point-blank shot. If her enemies came after her with large rifles or explosives, she had much bigger problems. Tal’s clothing design and colors looked similar to the rest of the security teams. A symbol of authority and solidarity with those under her command. The burgundy and dark blue palette never quite complimented her skin tone, but that mattered more on the business side of the house, when she dealt with major clients.

Devaronians were not an uncommon sight around the Galaxy, particularly in the Outer Rim, but nearly all of them were male. Shifty, transient, and with very flexible moral codes, they were known mainly as criminals, smugglers, and mercenaries. It was just part of their culture. Very few females ever left their home planet of Devaron, choosing to stay as matriarchs and community leaders. Most of the males would head into the jungles or up to the stars once they reached adulthood in search of adventure or fortune, only returning briefly to start a family. Tal had never been so resigned to her fate, pledging that she would be the opposite of what the Galaxy typically saw of her people – loyal, hard-working, and disciplined.

Although she had the pink-red skin typical of her male counterparts, Tal lacked the sharp, angled bone structure and distinctive horns. Instead, two dark circles stood out on her forehead, a vestigial reminder that the females of her species evolved them away. White fur around the back and sides of her head rustled as she passed a cooling vent.

Her path was nearly empty at this time of night, save for a few guards providing a staggered defense of the office and living quarters at the end. All of them had upgraded from sidearms to blaster rifles for the extra reach and damage. Standard procedure for an elevated security posture. It was adequate for now – what threat there was lurking within their walls had passed. Now it was just about coverage and vigilance in their patrols to ensure there were no more incidents. Tapping her thigh unconsciously, she double-checked to make sure her weapon was still in place. A habit she would likely never break.

“You there.” Tal pointed to the nearest of the guards. “Seal off this corridor and make sure we’re not disturbed.”

“Yes, Majordomo.”

Tal was proud of what she had accomplished here. She had come a long way to make it here and show just what she could do. After a few years, she knew the workings of the compound inside and out, and made sure she constantly trained herself in new subjects. From facilities operations and business management to both armed and unarmed combat. Tal especially enjoyed the latter, finding a sense of empowerment and agency in being able to defend herself against an attacker. Training and drilling in the staff gymnasium against the best the security team had to offer. Her bosses only encouraged it with their own love of personal fitness.

Most every newcomer to this office had to deal with the imposing nature of the large statues and stylish decor. Shrines of varying designs dedicated to the Fandas different projects. The size could be off-putting even before reaching the stylized desk and plush furniture at the far end. Behind the desk were the two Zeltrons she was here to meet, both of them wearing grave expressions. Although dressed in their high-end shimmersilk loungewear, their normally composed blue hair looked a bit disheveled.

The male, Giran, cut right to the point. "Is it true there's been a suspicious death?"

Tal let out the deep breath she was holding as she spoke. "That's correct. A human male was found dead just outside his stateroom by a member of the security."

“Make sure your teams are deployed to protect the rest of the guests.”

“They already have.” Easier to skip the details for the simplest answer. “Everyone knows their assigned posts, and we’ve taken care to avoid alerting the guests to any major change in our posture.”

The female, Oris Fanda, leaned forward. "Who does he represent? The Cartel? Exchange? A member of the Republic Senate?"

She shook her head lightly, "A regular client with only business interests. He had no official affiliation that we're aware of. My team is investigating his ship and room anyway, just in case."

"Cause of death?" Giran was sitting back, in contrast to his wife.

Tal knew the question was coming eventually. "His body had no external wounds, which originally made it appear it was a natural death. Messy, but without visible weapon marks or strangulation, it was the best explanation. According to our medical droid, however, his heart was crushed. The injury was instantly fatal, and it's unlikely he would have been able to defend himself."

"Crushed?" He asked in confusion, "How is that even possible?"

"Our primary suspect is the only one that has the ability to carry out this attack - a Sith named Darth Arnus. He arrived only a day before and departed our moon just after the murder occurred. Our scanners show his fighter leaving orbit and jumping toward Imperial space."

“Somehow I doubt that.” Oris scoffed. “I don’t know of any Imperial interceptors that have built-in hyperdrives.”

_Of course she wouldn’t be aware of them. That knowledge only comes through constant research, like I do every day_. “Although that’s true for almost every fighter, the Empire does provide custom fighters to certain Sith. These have larger engines and a hyperdrive, at the expense of targeting computers and electronic warfare packages. The rationale is that Force users can fight just as effectively without these features, making them redundant.”

“I see.”

“If I may,” Tal pressed, “what would you like me to do? This was a brazen attack by the Empire, and made a mockery of our rules.”

Giran shook his head. “Not that we disagree, but there’s not much we can do. Unless you have evidence that this assassination was ordered by Imperial command or we have something definitively tying them to the attack...” He let his hand drop in resignation. “Although it was an especially bold attack, there’s nothing we can do to the Empire as a whole. Their citizens are valuable customers that allow us our current success and making an enemy there would only hurt us in the long run.”

“Arnus, of course, is banned from any future visits.” Oris added.

Tal held her tongue. A simple ban seemed extremely tame when the man had disrespected everything the Fortress stood for. It was hard to seem a neutral party when anyone could be murdered within its walls. Perhaps the only thing that kept the war from spilling over into their system. “I’ll add his biometrics to our alert system.”

“We need to make sure the body is disposed of in a way that won’t draw attention. We don’t care how, but avoid the typical channels.”

“Already done.” _Do they think I don’t know how to do my job_? It was the first thing she had done once they confirmed the man was dead. The only logical thing to do if she hoped to keep things hidden under the cover of night. Deaths might be rare outside the arena but she was better qualified to handle it than anyone else on this moon.

Oris swept her hand like a blade. "No one must know about this. I mean no one. I don't have to tell you that this place lives and dies by its reputation as neutral ground. Something this brazen and disturbing will only be bad publicity."

"As you wish." Tal responded. Of course it would be terrible for the Fortress. That was why she took care of it immediately, instead of waiting to speak to these two.

“Is there something else?”

Tal felt her jaw tense. _Stars, I hope not_. “No, there’s been no other disturbances.” At the same time though, she started to feel more relaxed. Calm and amenable to her bosses. _Damnit_. Zeltrons naturally emitted pheromones that made them both more attractive and likable to others. _Just like that dominatrix upstairs… Maybe that's why they hired her_. Tal shook her head to try and clear it.

Giran nodded. “Let us know immediately if any more ‘incidents’ occur, please.”

“Of course.” Tal assured them as she turned on her heel. “You’ll be the first to know.”

As Tal slipped back down the hallway toward her quarters, she pushed down her returning indignation. It was clear they did not understand all that she did around here. How much they would never have to deal with because of her work. She only wished that they would finally see it one of these days.

Little did she know that the day would come sooner than expected.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it all the way to the end of this and thought it was half decent, please let me know with a kudo or a comment! And stay tuned for the next book, **SWTOR: Death Mark**! Thank you and MTFBWY!


End file.
